


A Universe Away

by o0katiekins0o



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Mirror Universe, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:43:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o0katiekins0o/pseuds/o0katiekins0o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's no hope for us." His chest constricted as the words tumbled from his lips. Tears streamed down his face as he failed to hold them back, just as he failed to save the woman he loves from this nightmare. </p><p>His wife huddled into his arms and pressed a desperate kiss to his mouth. Air raid sirens blared in the background as the lights of their Baker Street flat flickered and died. "There's every hope for us." She assured. "A universe away."</p><p>They embraced for a final time before another explosion went off and everything they built turned to dust and rubble along with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little Cinder Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adi_mou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adi_mou/gifts), [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts), [OccasionallyCreative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to the wonderful authors who keep the mirror universe genre alive with their amazing works.

"Petra! Hurry!" She heard her mother call as the house rattled and groaned. Another explosion had gone off, much closer this time, her ears rang with the force of it. She ran down the steps of her room to the sitting room where her mother and father paced frantically. 

"It's time to go, sweetheart." Her mother announced with a smile that wasn't like her natural smile. It didn't reach her eyes, but then again, they almost never did anymore, not since the war began. She slid the large army-issue canvas bag on her back as she had done dozens of times during their drills and moved to slip on her shoes but they weren't by the door where she kept them. 

"My shoes! Mummy, my shoes! I can't find them!", she panicked. The emergency they'd always prepared for had come and she couldn't find her blasted shoes! 

"No time, Petra!" Her father shouted. "The fireplace! Get into position like we practiced." 

Petra nodded, walking toward the fireplace she crouched down inside like her father had shown her, he snapped the metal cuffs to her wrists and her mother wrapped her in a thick blanket, tucking in her toes to hide her bare feet. Her father went to the console on the wall and began the sequence. They had never gotten this far in the drill before and the lack of familiarity, and the reality of what was occurring was causing terror to bubble up in her chest as she heaved out a heavy sob. "I don't want to go!" She shouted. 

Her mother's lip trembled as tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks. "You must." She whispered. 

"20 seconds!" Her father announced rushing to her mother's side. Both of them kneeling before her, reached into the fireplace and gave her a fierce, firm hug. 

"Daddy, don't make me go!" Petra begged. 

"We'll be there. We'll both be there." He assured, his calloused hand cupping her cheek. 

"We'll never leave you." Her mother said, openly crying now. She never did that. "Look for us there, my brave girl." They huddled together for one last hug and her parents kissed each of her cheeks.

Her father looked her square in the eyes and, for a final time, uttered the words she'd heard all her life. "More than anything." 

"I love you too." Petra called back as her parents went back over to the console, the timer had run down. Sequence complete, time to go. 

"Find us!" She heard her mother shout. Her father's eyes never left hers even as he punched in the final keystrokes that would send her through. She took a deep breath, and by her next, she was gone. 

 

* * *

 

"You did it." His wife murmured, her voice trembling in a tone somewhere between relief and accusation. "You saved our girl." She gripped the fabric of his shirt, crushing her face into his chest. He could feel her tears soaking through the fabric. She sniffed and looked up at him. His face was sunken and lined with grief and worry, but softened when he felt her familiar warm hand on his face. "My mad genius, you _saved_ her." She repeated. 

He looked down at her, eyes full of remorse. "We can't do another trip. We only had enough power for one... I'm so sorry, my love." 

She looked back on him with her warm brown eyes. "I know." She whispered with a smile. "It's alright. I know." 

"There's no hope for us." His chest constricted as the words tumbled from his lips. Tears streamed down his face as he failed to hold them back, just as he failed to save the woman he loves from certain death. 

His wife huddled into his arms and pressed a desperate kiss to his mouth. Air raid sirens blared in the background as the lights of their Baker Street flat flickered and died. "There's every hope for us." She assured. "A universe away."

They embraced for a final time before another explosion went off and they life they built together turned to dust and rubble along with them. 

 

* * *

 

She thought it would be like Alice falling through the looking glass, tumbling past clocks and teacups down, down, down into wonderland. Just like in the books her mother read to her, cuddled together in the window seat by her room. But she hadn't moved at all. Everything else seemed to have moved around her. One moment her parents were before her and the next, they were gone. In less time than it took for her to draw breath she was somewhere else. The world where her mum read her stories and her father dragged her around London on adventures was no more. 

She felt heat beneath her and trails of smoke curled out from under her feet. The fireplace must have been lit before she arrived. Now understanding the purpose of the thick blanket, she had smothered out the fire when she appeared. She coughed as smoke and soot clouded around her. Dropping the corners of her blanket, she rolled forward out of the fireplace and onto the floor with a thud. Huddling in on herself on the floor of her home (that was not her home) she choked out a string of harsh coughs that masked the sound of clattering glass coming from the kitchen. 

More tears fell. She couldn't allow herself to wallow. Her father had told her what to do. As soon as she came through she would need to follow the plan, get the lay of the land and determine her next move. "Get up." She told herself. "Just get up." But she felt burdened, crushed under the weight of her sudden loss. The plan would have to wait. She couldn't get her body to listen to her. She couldn't force herself to move.

She gasped as she heard footsteps coming toward her. Shock welled up inside. What should she do? She should hide and wait until she knew for certain it was safe. That's what her parents had told her to do. She shot up onto her knees and darted her eyes around the familiar flat, that was not at all familiar. Before she could make another move she saw him in the doorway to the kitchen. Standing, staring at her with a mug in his hands with characteristic nonchalance.

"Morning." He said with a quirked eyebrow as he assessed her. "Tea?"

Her heart soared. He said he would be here and he was! She fell apart with joyous tears.

Rising to her feet, she dropped her backpack, throwing herself against the man she recognized as her father.  

He stiffened. "Oh erm... Hello?"

She looked up at him, overjoyed and trembling with happiness. Suddenly it was all too much. The fear and panic, the heartbreaking goodbyes, and now this rapturous reunion. She cried into his shirt, clinging to him with a death grip. "Daddy!" She whimpered and promptly fainted.

 

* * *

 

The mug fell to the floor, shattering on impact into a puddle of milky brew all over his lino. He'd dropped it in his haste to catch the girl who had run into his arms and fainted.

Sherlock Holmes was no stranger to random people showing up in his flat, begging for help. None of them had ever called him "daddy" before, at least no one young enough for him to have actually sired. He shuffled her awkwardly in his arms until he had her against his shoulder. Stepping over the mess on his lino, he carried her into his sitting room to lay her gently onto his sofa. 

"Woo hoo!" Mrs. Hudson called. "Oh Sherlock, I've just done your floor!" She chastised, noticing the mess in his kitchen. 

"Quiet, Mrs. Hudson." He said in a hushed voice. "I've a visitor." He sat crouched beside where he'd lain her, studying her face. Her high cheeks and narrow eyes, her little sharp chin and upturned nose. She looked so familiar somehow. Although he was certain he'd never clapped eyes on her in his life. 

She stepped into the sitting room, abandoning the tray she'd brought up on the coffee table. "Strange. I hadn't heard anyone come up." 

"Nor had I." He agreed. 

"Oh dear, she's awfully young. Can't be any older than ten." The old woman seated herself on the armrest beside the sleeping girl. Her hair was dark and curly, fanning out behind her in long unkempt waves. "Is she looking for her parents?"

"Eight." He corrected, eyes narrowed as he scanned her, taking in every detail from the odd cuffs on her wrists to the soot in her hair. "I don't think she has any."

"Poor lamb." Mrs. Hudson cooed. "Did you get her name?" 

Sherlock shook his head. "She just ran toward me crying and then fainted." He left out the bit where she'd called him "daddy".

"She's a little young to be one of your fans." she noted. "Build up a fire before the dear thing catches a chill." Mrs. Hudson ordered, finding an old throw in an airing cupboard to swaddle the sleeping child with. It was then Sherlock took a moment to examine the fireplace that had once held a roaring fire just moments before he'd entered the kitchen for tea. There was a thick fireproof blanket, covering the once-crackling wood. _She'd smothered the fire? Why had she done that?_ He peered inside. 

Hand prints in the soot of the chimney's inner walls. Ash and soot in her hair and on her shoulders. On his feet once again he snatched up a flashlight from the mantel to examine the floo. She couldn't have come down through the chimney, it was impossible for even this tiny girl to fit. He circled the room. 

"Fascinating." He breathed. 

"What's that?" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking up from fretting over the little girl. 

"The dust lines on the windowsills are still unbroken." He mumbled, before dashing off to check his bedroom. 

"Well I haven't had a chance to get to those just yet- Sherlock!" She called after him as she watched him climb the steps to John's old bedroom for a moment then thundering back down with a manic glee on his face. 

"Calm down. You'll wake her!" She hissed. 

"Calm? How can I be calm when something so supremely intriguing has happened." He gestured toward the girl emphatically.

"Clients drop in on you unexpectedly all the time Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said patiently. Trying to follow Sherlock's logic was terrifically difficult thing to do when he gets mad-eyed like this. 

"Yes. But she got in!" He stated as though that was a complete explanation. Mrs. Hudson blinked, her face void of the understanding Sherlock clearly expected her to have.

"I've no idea _how_!"

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I realize this is probably super fluffy/cracky. I just liked the idea where our version of Sherlock is the "bad" one, compared to his counterpart.


	2. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing has been super hard for me lately and I've been neglecting my fics. I don't even know what is good anymore, I'm just sort of floating along right now. For those of you still reading, thank you. It means the world.

"Oh looks like she's coming to. Hello!" A warm familiar voice ushered her out of her dreamless, panicked unconsciousness. "I'm Doctor Watson." 

The voice was attached to a blur that was far too close to her face to properly make out. He was examining her pupils while checking her pulse and she could feel the strands of breath from his nose against her face, warm and alive. _Alive_. It was at that realization she squeaked and jumped, pushing herself away from the man before her.

"Oh sorry. Just checking to make sure you're all right. Sherlock tells me you had quite the fright." John smiled gently, palms up in a surrendering gesture. "Given the state of this flat, who could blame you?" He chuckled lightly.

She took a steadying breath, eyes wide, she gave a single nod, curling her knees against her chest, linking her arms around her shins. "Dr. Watson?" She asked tentatively.

He gave her a genuinely friendly smile, so open, so soft. Nothing like the battle hardened shell of a man from her world. "John Watson?"

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't betray any shock at her knowledge of his name. "Quite right. At your service." He gave a little bow that made her smile.

"And you are?" He inquired.

"Petra." She answered bluntly. Not offering more than that.

"That's a lovely name." His warm grin never faltered. "Well Petra, you must be knackered. Mrs. Hudson, tea please?"

"Not your housekeeper, dear." The elderly woman's voice lilted, filling the kettle nevertheless.

"Suits me fine, as this is not my house." His voice bright and jovial as he rose to his feet, offering his hand to Petra to help her sit up before joining Mrs. Hudson to arrange the tea things. 

Petra sat alone on the settee, looking about the flat. It was odd how similar it was to her own home, and also how alien. The walls of her own flat had been painted, not wallpapered, a cracking muted blue. Where this flat had an odd assortment of items, mounted beetles, a skull, random papers in stacks stabbed through with a knife strewn along the mantle. Her own mantle held keepsakes and photographs. Portraits of herself, of her mother and her... another wave of pain clutched her chest, she gripped the blanket that had been wrapped around her and lifted a corner to her nose. She closed her eyes and smelled it. Washing powder, cedar, coffee, and dust- her father through and through. 

After a few minutes John and the older woman, Mrs. Hudson returned with tea and sandwiches. Petra reached for a sandwich suddenly starved but remembering her father's many lectures about safety she paused and examined it while John munched away at his own.

Cheese? Real cheese?! And tomato!? These were foods Petra hadn't laid eyes on since... well she couldn't remember when. Her family had subsisted on government issued food rations and black market coffee ever since the fighting crossed the border into Europe. She knew she should probably examine it further but the others were eating so it didn't seem terribly likely that the food would be poisoned. She dug in, hungrily devouring the sandwich that had been the most magnificently delicious morsel she'd had in her mouth in years.

"Someone's hungry, poor dear. You look like you haven't had a bite in days." Mrs. Hudson cooed. Petra blanched at the maternal sweetness of the older woman. She wasn't used to people outside her own family concerning themselves with others, welcoming and sharing food. She didn't really have a frame of reference for this. She chewed carefully, simply nodding in agreement. 

"Do you have parents, Petra? Family? Someone we can call? Someone we can help you find?" John asked.

She wasn't certain what was safe to divulge, she wasn't entirely certain what kind of place this was where ghosts from her past roamed about, alive and whole. A place where food was not scarce and delicacies abound. She took a moment to consider the notion that she might, in fact, be dead. But Why would her father and godfather not recognize her were that the case? She wanted her mother's journal she glanced around the room for her pack and began to panic slightly when she noticed it was missing. 

"M-my bag... my things... Where are my things?" She shuddered breathing heavily and jumping from her seat to look for her personal effects. 

John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged glances, "Perhaps it's best if you sat down, poppet." The woman answered in her most friendly tone, walking toward her to secure a blanket around her shoulders. 

"Don't touch me! Where are my things!? I want my things now!" She wasn't quite shouting yet but she was firm. She practically vibrated with stress and fear, ripping the blanket off of her and throwing it to the floor. She began to frantically look for her backpack.

"Petra... Petra just try to be calm. We'll find it. Sherlock!" John shouted for the man who had made himself suddenly scarce immediately after John's arrival. 

Petra had begun to hyperventilate, she shook, tears standing in the corners of her eyes had begun to fall. "It's alright, Petra. It's okay." John assured calmly, hands out, palms up moving toward her slowly. "I can see that you're scared but you're safe here. No one will hurt you." 

Mrs. Hudson was at her side with a paper bag. "Breathe into this, slowly." She advised. John sat across from her on the coffee table, now at eye-level with her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes as she clutched the bag against her lips, slowly inflating and deflating it until her breathing steadied. Mrs. Hudson trailed her hand up and down Petra's back. 

"Okay, Petra. We're going to count to ten. Can you count to ten with me? Slowly." She nodded, paper bag still in hand inflating and deflating in a gradually slowing pace. Together they counted slowly to ten, Mrs. Hudson included. When they were finished Petra felt more under her own power. 

She let go of the crumpled bag, dropping it to the floor between her bare feet. Looking down at the bag her cheeks flushed with shame. One thing her parents had told her again and again was not to panic, never to panic. But she didn't know then what she'd be facing, what she'd be feeling. A harsh wasteland would have been preferable to this. It was all so overwhelming she almost began to sob again. "I just need my things." She said in a defeated whisper. 

"We'll find them. I promise." John paced over to Sherlock's bedroom door, rapping gently. "Sherlock... Sherlock we could use a little help out here." John said through gritted teeth, of course that bastard had run off and left John to do the heavy lifting.

"What, John?!" Sherlock snapped, opening the door of his bedroom only far enough for his head to reach through. "I'm a bit busy here." 

Oh no. John was having absolutely none of that. "Sherlock Holmes, You called me at work to help you with this mystery child. You're not hiding in there while I deal with an emergency out here, understand? Get out here and help us find her pack." He shouted sternly through the door, Petra's frantic pacing and harsh breathing could be heard as she tore through the flat in search of the pack. 

Sherlock popped his head out of the bedroom door, hair disheveled looking, frankly manic. "Is that all? It's in here, of course."

"Of course?!" John echoed. "Then bring it out here. Now, Sherlock!" John ordered, giving his friend a hard stare. Sherlock stared back for a moment, evaluating the severity of John's tone. He seemed to decide John's request warranted action so he nodded and grumbled something that sounded like "Just a moment." before shutting the door again. 

John sighed, crossing his arms impatiently and tapping his toe as he heard rustling on the other side. Another moment later Sherlock was carrying the pack in front of him as if it were a live bomb, following John into the sitting room where Mrs. Hudson had Petra bundled in an afghan sipping another cuppa. Her eyes widened as Sherlock approached and set the backpack down on the coffee table in front of her, and seating himself directly across her. 

Her arm darted out like a viper, snatching the canvas bag and clutching it to her chest with both arms banded around it for added security. She didn't speak, wouldn't look at him, a silent stand-off was taking place between them. Sherlock gave her a final searching pass with his eyes before seeming to retreat, leaning back against the chair with a sigh. Looking down, he rubbed at his forehead almost nervously. Now John was really worried. Sherlock looked almost afraid to speak. 

"You came here to find your father." He announced his deductions with none of the usual flair. In fact, John had never seen Sherlock so unhappy to make a deduction. Even less happy when Petra nodded meekly in affirmation. 

John chuckled, such a dour reaction over a missing persons case? They'd done dozens of these. Sherlock could practically conduct a missing persons investigation in his sleep. "Is that all? We'll find him, Petra. In the mean time we can arrange care for you until-"

"Sit down, John. And please shut up." Sherlock ordered. "I said she came here to find her father, not to ask us to find him for her." he snapped before inhaling a steadying breath and fixing his gaze back on Petra. The young girl nodded her head, slowly, providing the answer to his question. 

"And... have you found him?" He hesitated to ask. He already knew the answer, of course he did, he'd just gone through her things. She supposed it was foolish to hope that he hadn't gone through her mother's journal. Her heart ached at the thought that her mother's private thoughts, meant only for her eyes, had been ransacked by this stranger who wore her father's face. 

A single tear fell down from the corner of her eye and she sniffled as she, again, nodded in confirmation. 

Sherlock released a harsh gust of a sigh, rubbing his forehead, contemplating for the moment what to say next as John's bewildered eyes bounced between the two faces. "John." Sherlock called. "Leave. Please."

"Like hell I will, Sherlock! You nearly gave this girl a panic attack, there's no way I'm leaving her alone with you. In fact, I'm texting Mary. I'll make up the guestroom, Petra. You can stay with us until we've sorted all this out." John reached for his phone but Petra halted him with the uttering of a single word. 

"No." She answered. "No... thank you."

John looked up from his phone screen brows shooting toward his hairline as he sized up the small girl, hunched over on the sofa before him. 

John sat in the chair beside her, patting her ha.D in a gesture that was meant to be sympathetic but came across as a bit patronizing, as adults tend to be, "Petra, sweetheart, whatever the circumstances I'm certain your father-"

Sherlock scoffed, "Don't be so thick, John. _I'm_ her father!" He practically shouted in annoyance before sniffing and with a wave of his hand added "obviously." 

John's mouth dropped open in shock as his head darted left and right, looking at them both. The pieces falling into place as his mind was finally able to draw parallels it failed to see before. Her curls, the crest of her cheekbones, the bow of her lips, all features he'd seen before in a certain consulting detective. "Shes!-she's your..."

"Bastard?" Sherlock supplied. "Yes. Quite."

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson cried out, completely incensed at her tenant's boorish language. 

"Oh spare me your lectures on manners, Mrs. Hudson. That's simply the word for-for... this."

He waved in the direction of the young girl, her head bowed and chest roiling with anger. A hot flush on her face, biting the meat of her cheek until she could taste blood. It was torture to sit there and let this man claim to be her father. This man wasn't half the man her father was. He'd never be hateful or cruel to her. He would never direct foul language at her. 

Mrs. Hudson tsked, shaking her head at him. "That's no way to speak to a young lady, and certainly no way to address your own flesh and blood." From behind the sofa, the older woman gave Petra a comforting pat. 

John remained silent, still agog. Unable to form words, let alone string them together into cogent statements or relevant questions.

"I'd rather hoped I had avoided this but alas... Out with it, girl. Which conquest of my misspent years are you the result of?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair crossing his arms over his chest, his lips in a smug, flat, line. 

"Jesus Sherlock!" The only thing John could think of to say, and only because by now that phrase came out almost on reflex. 

"What?" Petra queried. 

"Parents. There's generally two of them. You're 8 years old, by now I'm sure you must have some understanding of reproduction." He offered by way of clarification but when it was clear she was still unsure of what he was asking he snapped. "Your mother. Who is your mother so that I may immediately return you to her and have done with this... experience? No matter, I trust it has been sufficiently cathartic regardless of whomever she may be. There's a reason your mother never told me about you, I am a terrible man and irredeemably unfit for fatherhood, you may run along back to her and confirm this so you may both move on with your lives." He gestured toward the door.

Mrs. Hudson made a whimpering noise, like a quiet sob, muffled into the sleeve of her dress.

Tears fell unhindered onto the blanket the older woman had provided, landing audibly like droplets of rain as Petra shook out a quiet, exhaled shudder. "My mother is dead, sir." She added the 'sir' with a venomous tone.

"Fucking Hell." John swore, before squinting in regret at his unfortunate word choice. 

Sherlock's head fell forward, catching it in the heel of his palms before bringing them up over his face in running them through his hair with a deep sigh. A beat passed before he quietly added, "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry... I didn't- I thought... I always miss something." He fell silent again as the only noise in the room was Petra's hushed cries and Mrs. Hudson's gentle cooing as she ran her fingers through the girl's long hair. 

John set to work trying to throttle his best mate with his look alone. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Your mother," He began. "What was her name?"

Petra looked up to catch his gaze with her matching almond-shaped eyes. "Lena." She answered to which his brows furrowed in question. "Do you..." She wanted to ask him if he knew her. Her parents had told her she would find them both on this side, they had thoroughly checked, this universe had both of their matching patterns in close quarters to one another. There was even evidence that they interacted.  "Do you remember her?" 

Sherlock deflated somewhat, a shadow of regret flickered across his eyes. "I don't. I'm sorry. I don't know of anyone called Lena."

Petra's eyes watered again and he felt compelled to add. "Please understand, that part of my life... There are gaps in my memory. It's not a slight to your mother. I'm certain she was an... an excellent person, choice in company notwithstanding. I just..." He trailed off, no longer able to find words to comfort her. 

Petra nodded in acceptance. Disheartened that finding her mother on this side may prove impossible, but hopeful that his attempt to comfort her was a positive sign. He could choose not to take her in and she would have nowhere to go. She would have no one on this side, the thought alone made her wish she'd stayed on with her parents. Even if all that became of her was a pile of smoldering ash, at least she'd meet her end beside the people who loved her. 

Sherlock stood from his seat, with a resolved exhale. "Well, I suppose that's that then, John would you be so kind as to offer us a ride to Barts. You're here to help after all."

John gave him a puzzled look. "Barts?!" 

"Well obviously. I need to confirm paternity so I may claim custody. That's why you're here, isn't it Petra? Your mother is dead and you've no place else to go." 

Petra nodded mutely. 

"So in order for my brother to gather the proper documentation I will need to provide him with the evidence of our shared DNA." He huffed, annoyed that, as usual, everyone around him was always two steps behind, slowing him down. Petra, for her part, was at least standing to her feet, pulling a well-worn denim jacket from her pack that was at least 3 sizes too large for her small frame. Sherlock pointed toward the girl. "And we'll need to take her shopping for new clothes." The tone of his voice at that announcement caused Petra to blanch and clutch the hem of the jacket, embarrassed at her ragged appearance.  

"Hold on, Sherlock. Just-just wait a moment." John implored. "Let Petra freshen up before you take her out. Mrs. Hudson, could you take her to yours? Draw her a bath?" John addressed the woman who'd been silently wringing her hands the entire time, probably contemplating whether she would have to be the one to inform Sherlock's mother of today's news. Nevertheless she was happy for the distraction of a task, one that extricated the poor girl from this terribly uncomfortable situation. 

"Yes of course, come along dear." She gingerly reached for Petra's hand, who took it without argument and followed her out of Sherlock's flat. "A lovely bubbly bath and a warm, fluffy towel would do you a world of good, I'd wager." She held her hand, shuffling her toward the stairs.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pretty good start on the next chapter and I'll be working on my other WIPs later in the week on top of working on SBBC. Thanks again, everyone for your readership and your patience. <3


	3. Petra in Quantumland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally at a place where I feel like I can write again. Hopefully I'll be updating all my WIPs soon. I've been on a much needed hiatus and finally feeling back to myself again. Hope this chapter was worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you all for your readership and encouragement. In means the universe to me. <3

Sherlock slunk back down in his chair when the door closed, reaching for the newspaper as if it were any ordinary day. As if his illegitimate children dropped in on him on a regular basis. He opened the paper with a shake and crossed one leg over his knee. John simply stared at him baffled, and quite frankly, pissed off. 

"Sherlock." He addressed the detective, trying not to seethe. 

"Hm?" Sherlock responded, not looking away from the paper. 

"Sherlock." John tried again, exercising immense patience. 

This time Sherlock did actually lower the paper to look at the doctor. "Was there tea?"

"Sherlock Holmes!" John practically shouted before lowering his voice, hoping not to disturb Petra further by having a row with her newly found fool of a father right above her head. "You-you... You have a CHILD!" 

"Yes John. Well spotted." He mumbled, returning his eyes to his paper. 

John shook his head and went for a different tack. "You have a child you didn't know about, that child is now relying on you to care for her. Do you understand? Does it register in your mind the enormity of that responsibility?! I mean... How... HOW did this happen? How could this have happened you don't... not your 'area'?"

"John, as a doctor, and certainly as a father yourself, I trust you understand how these things occur." Sherlock droned, maddeningly nonchalant in the face of pure insanity.

"I believe what I told you was that girlfriends were not my area. Unfortunately, some years ago, certainly long enough ago to have contributed to the conception of this child, getting high and having casual sex with strangers was very much my area. It didn't happen terribly often, but it happened. I have very little recollection of most of the encounters. And I thought I had the habit of using a condom well established but then again, at the height of my drug abuse I was speed-balling both heroine and cocaine, neither of which are especially good for decision making. It's entirely possible I'd... made a mistake." 

John scoffed. 'Made a mistake' indeed. "At any rate, I really think you ought to wait on that paternity test. Just... wait for another day."

Sherlock folded his newspaper, ready to engage in conversation now, apparently. "What for?"

John gave his friend a frustrated glare. "Are you serious? Do you know who is in the lab today?"

"Molly." Sherlock answered without pause. "And?"

"And I just think that with everything she's been through lately, you could maybe give her a break on the shocks. For once." John supplied, adding a little more harshness to the words 'for once' than he meant to. His look communicated unsaid volumes. 

Sherlock returned his eye contact as though the images of his thoughts projected across them. 

Relapse. Sherrinford.

For an unsettling beat Sherlock looked uncertain, almost frightened.

"Nonsense!" Sherlock retorted. "She'll find out eventually. It's better she find out sooner rather than later, and from me, don't you think? At any rate, any issues she may have with it, she will need to process and get over as quickly as possible. I will be requiring her help after all."

"Please, Sherlock. You know very well she would never let her emotions get in the way of performing her lab duties." John defended, Molly was no wilting flower, He was only hoping that for once the detective would take her feelings into consideration before he came barging in on her territory. 

"Of course not, I didn't mean with the lab, I meant with the girl." Sherlock gestured vaguely toward the door she'd disappeared through minutes ago. "I don't know anything about caring for a child, let alone a young girl, I'll require her assistance." 

A disbelieving chuckled bubbled up in John's throat at the presumptuous bent of Sherlock's thinking regarding the pathologist. "I wouldn't count on that, mate."

"Why not? She's single and childless. She's certainly an adequate female role model for the girl. I think it would be an excellent fit."

"That's very sweet, Sherlock. You should put that in a card." John said, practically oozing sarcasm from every pore. "I'm begging you, there's a better way to do this. Let me do the blood draws here and I will take them to the lab myself. Once you have the confirmation and Mycroft gets the documentation in order, you can plan on how to break it to Molly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "Fine, but I was rather hoping Molly could do the shopping with her bit."

"No Sherlock, you're the parent." John pulled a face as is if the word, in this context, had a funny aftertaste. "Bite the bullet and do it yourself."

 

* * *

 

 

"Sir, you told me to notify you when the channel opened." The woman who was not Anthea announced, walking with flawless grace down the poorly lit corridor despite not lifting her eyes from her mobile screen. She trailed behind him as they reached his office. 

Placing her mobile in the front pocket of her smartly tailored blazer she relieved her superior of his coat and signature brolly. After shedding his outer layers he dismissed her. 

He waited until he could no longer hear her Manolo Blahniks clacking against the tile before exhaling a breath and shedding his jacket and waistcoat.

He sighed, pouring a finger of scotch into a crystal lowball glass, loosening his tie before taking a burning gulp.

He didn't know what unnerved him so much about these calls. He had benefitted greatly from them. The other had given him so much insight into which bridges to cross and which to burn, which strings to pull and which to cut.

But it's a dangerous game. The line they walk is a fine one.

Mycroft Holmes could never be considered cavalier, by any stretch. But the other had shown him in a far more tangible way, the importance of playing one's cards close to one's vest. 

Mycroft took another burning gulp from his glass, draining the dregs that remained. No more time left to dither. A few keystrokes into his computer, a long sequence of electric hums echoed throughout the secluded office. 

Another moment later a fuzzy image came into view. A face very like his own, but with a sheen of sweat on his brow and 2 days worth of scruff. Like himself, the other had loosened the knot in his tie and was drinking a scotch.

"I see the negotiations went about as well as we expected." Mycroft tried at his usual smug self assuredness but faltered for reasons he could not bring himself to name.

The other scrubbed his face with his hands before running them through his prematurely graying hair. "Worse, in fact. The invasion is moving along ahead of schedule. I'd estimate boots on the ground at some point in the next..." The other paused to glance at his watch "22 hours or so." 

"They don't want a treaty. They want an unconditional surrender." Mycroft supplied sagely. 

" _That_ I cannot offer." The other snapped.

"You must." He hissed. Before lowering his voice beseechingly. "Save yourself."

The other grinned to himself, shifting the ice in his own glass before drawing another savoring sip into his mouth. "To what end?" He asked after a long moment. 

Mycroft, in the vastness of his intellect, still could not contrive of a single answer to that question.

"The game is over." The other said somberly. "Everything I have left is yours. I trust my little package arrived safely."

"I have my best man on it. You can trust that the very best care will be taken to insure-"

"Yes, yes enough of that." The other cut him off. 

 Mycroft supposed the low resolution of the image could potentially account for the redness in the other's eyes. But the sniffle barely concealed behind a grubby monogrammed handkerchief was another matter altogether.

The other composed himself quickly, all trace of feeling purged from his now expressionless face. "I hate to cut our time here short, especially since it's almost certainly the last time, but I have a few final arrangements to make that require my careful attention."

Mycroft looked at the man on the screen, wearing the expression of utter hopelessness combined with an immutable sense of duty. He knew it well.

How many times had his face taken on that very same expression? Whilst pulling his brother off the filthy floor of smack houses, the skips behind dance clubs, and one memorable time at a certain pathologist's residence, he'd worn it so much, he knew the exact feeling of each of the muscles tightening in the other's face. 

The recognition made him feel as though his ribs were shrinking around his lungs. "Yes." He answered stiffening his composure. "Yes, I suppose you do."

The other nodded soberly. "Goodbye Mycroft. Do take care." 

"You as well, Mycroft."

They both shared a knowing stare before the image went dead.

Alone in the universe once more, Mycroft exhaled loudly, holding his head in his hands. For the first time in forever Mycroft felt as though he could cry.

 

* * *

 

Water had poured from the tap, already hot, with little tendrils of steam whispering off the tense surface of liquid. She'd heard of such things but they were long gone by the time she was old enough to remember. 

On days when the energy could be spared, her mum would boil water in a stock pot for baths. Sometimes they had to take turns using the same water. Her dad always went last. 

'I'm the dirtiest anyway.' He would joke. But Petra knew he just didn't want his wife and daughter to miss out on the only hot water they would have all week. She doubted very much that the one upstairs would give any thought to the amount of hot water he used. He smelled of aftershave, like the kind her father only wore on important meetings with her Uncle.

He kept his hair longer and it looked shiny and styled. Her father kept his hair cropped short. When the curls became too wild and unmanageable, her mother would cut his hair on the kitchen floor.

After she would sweep up the little curls, sighing wistfully at the pile of ringlets when she thought no one could see her.

She realized now that the one here must wear his hair very similar to how her father had worn it before the war had made styling, and other such considerations, moot.

When Mrs. Hudson had drawn her bath, she'd tossed some fragrant salts into the water but didn't offer any other help, which Petra was now regretting as she looked at the numerous bottles lined up along the corners of the bath.

She stuck with what she knew, taking the soap from the dish. It was fragrant like the salts, floral and sweet, nothing at all like the astringent cakes of soap that came in their weekly ration boxes.

It lathered into a thick layer of bubbles with only a few passes between her palms, very different from the soap from her world, which took several hard passes to even leave a slippery trail on her skin. 

She ducked down into the water to wet her hair before filling her palms with soap bubbles again to wash her unkempt locks. It was one indulgence her mother and father allowed, long hair was work but she loved it.

She and her mother had both kept their hair long after the war. But her mother's hair had been naturally fine and pin straight. Her maintenance wasn't quite the hassle Petra's was. 

But at night before bed, her mother would sit with her in front of the fire, carefully combing out all the tangles of the day. Petra's eyes stung with tears once more but she dove down beneath the water to rinse them away with the flowery soap.

Her face had just breached the surface of the water when she heard a tapping at the other side of the door. "It's just me, dear." The elderly woman called. 

"Oh. Uhm... you can come in." Petra answered through the door. 

The door creaked open and Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a stack of cloth in her arms. "Here we are dear." 

She looped a towel through a metal ring beside her before setting a small stack down on the closed toilet lid.

"I don't have much." Mrs. Hudson said apologetically. "But I think I have a few tops that will function nicely as a dress for now, with a few pins, of course." 

She plucked a t-shirt from the top of the stack, it seemed small and certainly like nothing she could imagine Mrs. Hudson wearing. 

The top featured a cartoon cat sleeping with z's floating over its head. Beneath it, we're drawstring shorts patterned with clouds.

Petra gave her a questioning look. "Do you have a daughter?"

"Heaven's no. I'd have liked one but..." She sighed. "Looking back it was probably best that I didnt."

Petra was silent for a moment, unsure of what to say I  response. Luckily she was not stuck on the quandary for long as Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to relieve the young girl's curiosity.

"These clothes were left here by a friend of your... of Sherlock's."

"His girlfriend?" She asked tentatively.

This time she chuckled softly. "No." That single word was labored with unspoken meaning.

 "She... helps him with his work. They're friends. I would even go so far as to say they are close friends. Very close." 

"And she spends the night?" Petra ventured. 

"Ah well... no. That was once. She stayed for a few days to help him with... well you don't want to hear about that." Mrs. Hudson looked away. "When you're ready, you can get dressed. If these don't work, don't hesitate to let me know."

She exited quickly afterward, shutting the door behind her with a snap.

Left alone again, Petra chose not to luxuriate, instead she reached down to pull the plug to begin draining the tub.

 

* * *

 

Molly's joints groaned as she bent down to gather up several pipettes that had fallen to the floor.  It was fine, it just meant a fuller load for the autoclave. 

She heard the lab's double doors swish open gently. Far too gentle to be the detective she'd been avoiding. She looked toward the figure approaching her as she rose to her feet.

"Oh. Hullo, John." She greeted him with some relief. 

"Molly." He answered with a smile. "Terribly busy?"

Molly squinted up at the clock, "No. My shift is winding down now. Things are usually rather slow at this time of day. Why? Can I help with anything?"

"Nothing serious or time sensitive, just seeing if I could add it to the queue." John smiled, but there was something insincere about it. 

Molly returned his smile with a cheeky grin of her own. "I can do you one better, I can put it at the top of the queue. All I have on at the moment is paperwork and housekeeping really."

John's smile fell slightly. "Well don't put yourself out. No one's life is depending on this information or anything." 

"Oh? What sort of test is it?" She enquired. John's purposeful underselling of the task's importance had her all the more intrigued. 

He cleared his throat, eyes darting side to side before reaching into his jacket pocket and drawing out two phials of blood. "Just a paternity test. Like I said, nothing major."

"Paternity test?" She repeated questioningly. "Sherlock must be dying of boredom if he's taking these sorts of cases."

"It's not actually for a case per se'." He explained. "It's for a sort of... side project." 

Molly giggled. "Uh oh, stepping out on Sherlock are we?"

John huffed. Molly knew it annoyed him when people insinuated his association with Sherlock was anything other than close friendship.

She didn't wait for him to answer, instead she reached for the phials John brought. "I'll have these processed in two shakes. I can text you the results if you like."

John froze. He seemed on edge and hesitant to leave, watching Molly handle the blood samples as if they could very easily explode. "Unless you'd like to stay?" 

After another few thundering ticks of the clock on the wall above them, he shook his head and smiled. "Ah no, thank you very much for the offer, I should be going."

Molly's brows knit slightly with concern, "Alright. I'll text you as soon as I have the results, but we should get together soon. I should very much like to get my arms around that little girl." 

John choked on seemingly nothing before coughing to clear his throat. "Little girl? Oh yes... er... yes. We should. Very soon."

"How is she doing?" Molly probed, hoping a little friendly conversation would reveal a reason for John's strange behaviour. 

"Well, very well. She's babbling constantly. Some of it actually sounds like words!"

"You'll have the opinions of two immature children to contend with before long." She jibed.

John scoffed. "Yes having a child was _very_ different the second time around."

They shared a mutual laugh at their friend's expense. When the humorous moment passed John ventured to speak, speaking a bit from nowhere he said. "You're very good with children Molly."

"Me? Thank you! I was raised Irish Catholic. My grandmother had 7 children. I have 26 first cousins alone. I've been changing nappies almost from the moment I was out of them myself." Molly smiled to herself, "Babies are so sweet, but I think they're more fun when they're older and you can talk with them, play games." 

John gave her a curious look that Molly couldn't pin a name to. 

Silence fell again but Molly was growing weary of the ambiguity so she sought to put an end to it. "So... dinner soon? And I'll text you the results as soon as I get them."

John seemed to snap out of whatever fog he was in with a slight shake of his head. "Right, of course. Thank you, Molly. I'll talk to Mary about making dinner plans tonight."

"Sounds great! See you soon, John."

"Yeah... uhm... yes. Thanks again, Molls." He said with a wave before exiting the lab.

Something was wracking John's nerves and Molly was almost certain it had everything to do with these two phials. She couldn't let go of the idea that Sherlock had a hand in his friend's discomfiture as well. 

No matter, people always assume they can get things past her. That must be why John didn't even try at being more conspicuous. At least she dearly hoped he wasn't actually trying. Because if that was John making an effort toward secrecy, he was doing a very poor job indeed.

She was confident she could piece together the answer eventually. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock's messes landed on her doorstep.

 


	4. Convergance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's inner circle contemplate their new roles in the lives of his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long story short: Not dead. If you follow me on Tumblr or are in any of the Sherlolly groups you know this already. For the rest of you it may come as a surprise. 
> 
> My life has undergone a lot of changes this last year and the creative spark has just not been there for writing. That being said, I have come back to this fic but I've gone back and made a few changes to this fic to make it fit in the post-S4 canon. 
> 
> It was actually not that much of a change but I suggest a reread it for the sake of continuity.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you all for continuing to comment on it. It means a lot to me.

"Yes!" Mrs. Hudson whispered harshly into her kitchen phone's receiver, sparing a glance to her six to ensure there was no snooping detective dropping eaves about the place. "Little girl, about eight, oh he gave her quite the shaking up." She confessed to her co-conspirator.

"Yes, he knows!" She replied, voice thick with accusation "And left him here alone without a stitch of proper clothes for the girl or a single morsel in that flat.", her voice distressed primarily about the latter. "If there'd have been any warning I would have gone down to the shops."

She paused again, her dire expression falling into a smile as she contemplated her answer. "Very like him. Same eyes, sharp and focused, high cheeks, wavy hair- he couldn't deny her if he tried. He's not thankfully, but she also has a familiar look about her..." She craned her neck back to glance at the girl sleepily nibbling on a biscuit while dissecting a cartoon with a bewildered look in her mercurial eyes. "Strange. There's something about her that is so familiar. It's more than her resemblance to Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson listening to the voice on the line. "Oh he's there? Good, give him a thumping from me. Ta, dear." She rung off, pressing backward against the wall with a heavy breath. A child in her home, she never thought she'd live to see the day. The girl was lovely and had obviously had a rough go of things but really, at her time of life... 

Not that it mattered. Petra was Sherlock's daughter, meaning she was now an immovable fixture in the life of Martha Hudson. 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time John arrived at his flat, his wife had already gone half mad. He nearly crashed into her as she swept through their home, filling the crate she held under her arm with seemingly sundries. 

"I suppose Mrs. Hudson phoned you." He sighed, combing his fingers through his cropped, graying hair. 

She paused, shoving a recent issue of Heat into the crate along with half a bunch of bananas, chocolate digestives and an assortment of miniature crisp packets. "Oh is that what you suppose?" She asked coldly. 

"I'll tell you what I suppose. Your chronic knob-head of a best mate found out he has a child and you left said, emotionally vulnerable child. Alone. With Sherlock Holmes... So I have to suppose you must only have an hour to live and chose to spend the last three quarters of it with me. Because, if that's not the case love, I feel as though you may have done a very silly thing indeed." 

Her voice was high but her smile was tight and her eyes held a fierceness that made John press back a little deeper into his heels. 

"I was taking the blood samples to the lab. To Molly." John answered, his mouth a grin line as he peered up at her from his lowered head. 

To which Mary answered by dropping the crate onto the coffee table and sit heavily down onto the sofa. "Oh shit! Molly..."

"She doesn't know." John assured. "Bloody Sherlock wanted to go to the lab, dragging the girl along behind and make Molly do the blood draws herself. I convinced him to let me take the samples. Not sure how we'll break the news to her. She'll be getting the results in later today. Though Sherlock didn't even attempt to deny it. I mean the resemblance..." The doctor was at a loss for words. 

"Martha told me. So she's very like him then?" She asked in a breathless voice, her eyes darting at him in a conspiratorial manner. Eager for more details.

John only nodded, eyes wide as he recalled the little girl's face. "Especially around the eyes. Though just in shape, their color is a sort of amber hue, and her jaw is softer than his, thank the merciful Lord."

They laughed softly together, the panic of moments before briefly forgotten. Their levity was short lived, however, when their own daughter began making her presence known by babbling softly into the baby monitor.  John turned to answer his daughter's call, returning with the cherubic toddler clutching her woefully empty sippy cup. 

Mary took the child in her arms as her husband went to the kitchen to remedy the situation.

"I thought maybe it'd be best to leave them together. Get to know one another without any interference." He explained, filling his daughter's cup with water from the fridge door before returning to the sitting room. 

"Maybe you're right and it was a stupid thing to do, but..."

He looked at his daughter making grabby hands at the full cup and squirming in her mother's arms to reach toward it. He let out a breathy laugh as he obliged her demands. Pausing to pass his index finger along the side of the tiny girl's round cheek, to which she responded with a snaggle-toothed smile.  

"I can't even imagine what she'll look like at eight years old. Let alone not knowing her at all until then. So much lost time. And it was obvious she'd been through hell. She'd fainted and had a panic attack within an hour, she was also a bit pale and underweight. Probably been sleeping rough. I suspect she may be suffering from moderate anemia and certainly exhibited symptoms of post traumatic stress. I just thought it best that she, and Sherlock, have space to feel this out."

Mary nodded, the logic was sound but she felt there was more. Something he was withholding. "How did Sherlock react to the news?"

"As well as you'd expect." John answered somberly. "He made a complete nonce out of himself trying to run her off before learning her mother died. As far as we're aware, Sherlock is the only person she has left."

"She has us now." Mary reassured smiling wide when her daughter cooed in seeming agreement. "She has us now. Yes she does!" Mary addressed the toddler in a high sing-songy voice. "And Mrs. Hudson, And Greg, and Molly... Shit!" 

John nodded. "You forgot that little detail for a minute didn't you?"

"Yes! Christ!" Mary closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, centering herself. "This is fine. You know what? This is totally fine. I mean, why are we even assuming she would be upset? It was practically ten years ago, she barely even know him then."

John shook his head. "And it's not as though they're in a relationship."

Mary fixed him with a judgmental glare that clearly stated, 'surely you can't be that stupid'. 

"They're not though..." John's brows knit together as though they were stitching his thoughts, beginning to see the grand pattern after a few more rows of data.

"Are they?" He wasn't certain if he was asking his wife or himself.

Sherrinford had been hellish on them all, but Molly Hooper had been chosen for a singular torment. Yes, everyone knew she was absolutely, bafflingly, besotted with Sherlock, but few knew how utterly devoted she was to him. Even Moriarty failed to notice. He'd never thought to consider why. She felt deeply for the man, to be sure, but she was a realist.

It became clear to him in that moment that something had to have fueled her ardour. He must have said something, done something, to give her hope over all these years. "My God!" He exclaimed, although in a tone was less 'Eureka' and more 'you're a fool, John Watson'.

"It's still very new, they're still unpacking a lot of things. Their situation is... fragile, to say the least of it." Mary spoke intimately of the relationship between them, with a kind of empathy, clearly she'd been getting a side to the story he had not been privy to. 

"I don't know much more than that." She added, as if attempting to preemptively assuage him.

John recalled seeing Sherlock smash the coffin meant for Molly to splinters with his bare hands, but when they came back from the island and things went on more or less as usual, John didn't think to look into the situation any further. In fact, he tried not to think of it at all, the entire experience had been rather traumatic and he wasn't quite at a stage where he was ready to relive it.

From nearly losing his wife to her rogue former partner, chewing his nails off waiting for word as she led her friend-turned-pursuer on a random chase around the world. He and He and Sherlock took a role in her plan to apprehend Ajay, and in so doing, exposing Veronica Norris. To his brief, although shameful, emotional affair with a woman who later turned out to be Sherlock's secret sister; he'd kind of had a full plate reconciling all of that before Sherrinford had even come into the equation. 

So it was fair to say Dr. Watson had not spent much time thinking about Sherlock and Molly, or any potential relationship they may have been forming, though in retrospect it seemed quite obvious. He didn't want to consider what that said about the kind of friend he'd been this past year, he could barely stand to think about the kind of husband he'd been this past year. He set that thought aside to wrestle with later. 

He looked at his wife with his daughter in her arms and felt another stab of guilt at how he'd nearly let himself throw it all away, how circumstance nearly tore his family asunder even without his help. In spite of that, they were all here, more or less whole again.  John would do whatever he could to keep his family together, and to see the same for his best friend. 

He realized they had fallen into a kind of tense lull. However his wife offered a conversational reprieve, quipping spritely, "What is it with this family and secret relatives?"

The unexpected levity combined with a really rather stressful day, had taken him by surprise. Snort-laughing agreement he answered, "Right?"

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

The next morning, after a night fretful sleep in a strange (no matter how similar) place,she hears his footsteps on the stairs, firm, purposeful. She knew right away it was him but was surprised when he actually rapped on the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat, she'd assumed he'd fling the door open carelessly. That seemed to be his style.

Petra had slept on matronly woman's sofa upon her insistence. Her fath- Sherlock's flat was unsuitable for a child, she'd repeated several times, rephrasing it in a new and more colorful way each time, and once more for good measure as she was opening her flat's door to him.

She, herself, had no strong feelings on the matter. Clearly these people were not familiar with the level of filth she'd endured when irradiated winds blew ash across the landscape, offering no reprieve sometimes for weeks on end. Her mother took down the curtains, no longer necessary after the windows had been boarded over, to create a canopy over her bed, protect her from breathing in motes of ash that found their way in through the tiny breaches of their home as she slept.

Every morning she would wake to sweep the ash out of the flat only to repeat the process again the next day, and the next, on and on until the storms broke. Her parents had made it a game, oh no, she couldn't afford to start thinking about them just now. Not when her every expression was being scrutinized by a man identical, and yet somehow totally disparate, from her real father.

Seated at the small dining room table, she looked down to find the woman had set a feast down in front of her. "Is this... all for me?" She asked, agog as she set down another equally full plate in front of Sherlo- her father, she was still conflicted over whether she could begin to think of him that way, although part of her believed she ought to just get on with accepting it already.

"Oh I'm sorry dear, would you like another sausage or two?" was Mrs. Hudson's nearly unbelievable response.

"N-no. This is fine. This is plenty." She finally said once it occurred to her to use her mouth to speak instead of merely gape. And she meant it, probably for the first time in her young life instead of merely saying it to keep her parents from giving her all of their food. Adding an earnest "Thank you." as she tucked in.

With her head bowed to her plate, going first for the tomato slices, she didn't notice the telling glance the two adults shared over her head while she ate with gusto.

Breakfast here was a mostly quiet affair. In her family, meals came with delicious conversations to make up for the satisfaction their meal of rations lacked. Mrs. Hudson chattered amiably for a bit but there were quite a few long lulls where the only sounds where cutlery against plates.

It was at some point during this pregnant pause that Sher-her father! Ahh! The man across from her cleared his throat as though to speak.

"Petra-" He addressed her in a sweet tone, going up on the end of her name, just like her father would before reminding her she hadn't remembered to clean her room, or had left her shoes on the stairs again.

"I was wondering if, perhaps today, we could talk a little bit about your mother." She saw Mrs. Hudson tense and shoot at him with her reproachful gaze.

"That is", he amended, "If you want to."

She swallowed a bite and shrugged, shaking her head. "I wouldn't know what to tell you. She was my mother and she's not alive anymore."  the 'She existed in a parallel dimension and was married to your counterpart' bit had to remain unspoken.

"You could start with her name." He suggested, an implicit nudge in his voice. 

"Told you already" she dodged, taking in another forkful; food going in hopefully blocking words from coming out.

"Yes 'Lena'. And her surname?" His voice was still high, his face seemed to creak with the effort of keeping on a sympathetic smile. 

In her mind she screamed Holmes! Her surname was Holmes she was your wife, not some drug-addled rendezvous. She warred with herself on what to say before giving up and lying poorly. 

"I don't remember."

He wasn't buying it, she could tell but she could also tell he knew he would gain no ground pushing further on the matter. 

Mrs. Hudson dispelled the tension, attempting to lighten her mood with the prospect of decorating her 'new' room. She mostly just nodded to whatever the woman was saying, something about fairy lights vs glow in the dark stars. She would intermittently steal glances over at her-her father, he was staring at her, analyzing her.

Her heart bloomed with warmth. She wantes to close her eyes and soak it in like sunshine. Comforted in the discomfort of his scrutiny, finally something that was exactly the same, she found herself returning his gaze with a smile. 

That must have made him uncomfortable by turn because he froze, swallowed and darted his eyes away, pretending to examine the wallpaper.

Sometime toward the end of the meal, as she was savoring a long gulp of orange juice (so much better than the packets of powder back home) when her mostly empty plate was pushed aside and replaced with a small computer. 

"I assume you know how to use one of these." He said, nonetheless looking a bit relieved when she nodded in the affirmative.

"You can use it to order whatever you like. You'll be needing some clothing, and toiletries of your own. Get anything you need. There's still work that needs doing before you can move in upstairs but I expect we can have John's old room made over for you in a day or two."

She nodded her head. 

"Good. That's good. Let me know when you've finished. I'll be arranging a few things upstairs in the meantime." He rose to stand, "Ehm... knock before you come in." he added before a censorious look from Mrs. Hudson compelled him to add, "Please."

He bent at the waist to give the elderly woman an affectionate peck before making toward the door. He took a beat, however, turned on his heels toward Petra to grace her own cheek with an identical kiss. "Thank you for breakfast." He announced to them both, somewhat awkward and stilted, but it warmed her to him somehow as she watched him leave. 

The laptop was less sophisticated than what she was used to, a bit clunky and basic. That had to simply be how computers were here, she couldn't imagine that man having an outmoded computer, finally something they had done better on her side.

He'd already had a browser open to a popular girl's shop with next day delivery, all she had to do was click on what she found suitable but she found herself immediately lost in her options. 

She was meant to get what she needed. What did she need? She closed her eyes and remembered her old room. The feel of her quilt in her hands, the smell of bookbindings mingled with ash, the sound of her mother's ragged coughs from dust pneumonia- she shut her eyes and reminded herself to focus.

Bedding, she supposed she'd need bedding. She chose one of the more muted options of the loud coloured comforters emblazoned with cartoonish prints on offer. It was still a bold yellow with orange and pink paisleys, but she found herself drawn to the soft yellow, and the restful symmetry of the pattern's swirling loops.

She added a new coat and a two pairs of trousers and two jumpers to go with. She supposed that was all she needed, before Mrs. Hudson peeked over her shoulder. "I hope you're getting more than that!"

Confused, Petra's expression must have asked the question before she did, "What more could I need?"

Because she was interrupted by a nearly frantic "Everything. Oh absolutely everything!" And then, as if giving her a reprieve from trying to suss out what 'everything' entailed, she gestured for Petra to budge over as she sat beside her adding socks, underwear, pyjamas, dressing gown (basics that Petra had genuinely not thought of, she'd rarely had enough of them in her life), and rather a lot more tops and trousers. she added a little toiletry bag complete with a variety of soaps that claimed to smell of candy floss; Petra wasn't certain what that was, but it sounded fantastic.

But even when Petra thought that had been the end, Mrs. Hudson kept adding to the cart, multiple pairs of shoes (some kind of pink trainers covered with sparkles, some shiny black things with straps across the ankles, and a pair of wellies), now dresses, tights, headbands and hair clips garishly covered in sequins and appliques.

Next was scarf, hat, gloves, extra sheets and towels, in bright lavender and others in cloud prints, and plush pink cozy looking slippers. She was almost overwhelmed with it all. Her eyes felt heavy from staring at the screen and examining item after item as the kindly older woman ooh'd and ahh'd and attempt to extract opinions from her. 

She couldn't be certain when it happened, but she must have dozed off sometime during their little shopping spree. The combination of hearty food and over stimulation had made remaining awake a futile effort. Clearly someone had moved her from where she had slumped against the dining table because she was now back, nestled into the sofa, with only the distant recollection of large arms around her and a masculine scent before desire to rest overpowered her. Familiar, but different enough to bring a sharp little tear when she thinks about why. 

She pulls the comforter that had been tucked around her over her head and knuckles the tear away before settling more deeply into the cushions and willing herself back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh and BTW fuck Mofftiss and ACD! MARY LIVES FOREVER!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the shortish chapter but I just wanted to introduce the feel of what I'm going for. I realize this is probably pretty fluffy/cracky but I'll be piling on the angst in later chapters, never fear!  
> I liked the idea of writing a mirror universe fic where our version of Sherlock is the "bad" one compared to his counterpart.


End file.
